The Preacher's Bride (Brides of Simpson Creek)

by Laurie Kingery

  Patting the horse on the flank, Gil strode into the shade and lowered himself to the ground against one of the mesquites. Then his stomach growled, and he remembered the sandwich he had left in his saddlebag along with his Bible, and started to scramble back to his feet again to retrieve it.

  No, first things first. He’d pray before he ate. That was why he’d ridden out here, wasn’t it? To beseech Heaven to help Faith regain her faith? He bowed his head and clasped his hands.

  “Heavenly Father, I—”

  And then he heard the sound.

  Chapter Eight

  “Papa, I’ve brought your dinner,” Faith called above the clackety-clack of the black Washington hand press to the man pulling ink-wet sheets off it and hanging them to dry on nearby cords stretched across the back of the office. Yesterday had been press day, but her father was always printing something such as handbills or “wanted” notices. The extra revenue coming in helped keep the Simpson Creek Chronicle profitable.

  A bell over the door had tinkled the news of her arrival, but it was useless against the din of the monstrous black machine behind the counter. Nor had he heard her voice—she suspected the constant din of the press had rendered her father a little hard of hearing. She finally deposited the napkin-covered basket on the countertop and let herself through the swinging gate that separated the working area of the newspaper office from the front.

  “Papa,” she called again, and finally touched him on the shoulder. Startled, he flailed his arms and dropped the sheet he’d been about to hang up. It fluttered to the ground, and even as he bent to pick it up, Faith could see the still-wet print had blurred.

  “Faith, I didn’t hear you!” He had to shout to be heard over the din, but he looked pleased to see her.

  “I’m sorry, Papa. Looks like that sheet is ruined.”

  Her father leaned over his beloved press and flipped a lever. After spitting out a final sheet, the press wheezed into silence. “No matter,” he said. “I’ll just run off another. Handbills for the mercantile, you see. Mrs. Patterson’s having a big sale starting today.” He reached in his vest pocket and offered her some coins. “Why don’t you go see if there’s some pretty hair ribbon or some other feminine frippery, now that you’ve got the young preacher’s eye on you?”

  Faith strove to hide her dismay. “Papa, but I’m afraid you’re mistaken. We—we only sat together at the wedding party, that’s all. We’re just friends.”

  Her father snorted. “Hmmmphhh. I can tell if a fellow’s eye is on my daughter, I think. So what brings you here, Faith? Not taking care of the old preacher today?”

  “Not today, Papa. It’s Maude’s turn. Mama sent me over with some dinner for you. Come sit down now and eat it.” She picked up the basket and carried it to his desk. She and her mother had learned that if they didn’t insist he stop and eat right when they brought the food, he was liable to forget to do so and would shamefacedly bring the uneaten meal home with him in the late afternoon.

  “Thanks,” he said, obediently sitting down by the basket. “Guess I could eat a bite.”

  She sat down to keep him company, but she guessed he had already forgotten her presence, and wondered if he’d notice if she left. Then she remembered what she had tucked into her reticule. “There was a letter for you in the post office, Papa,” she said, bringing it out. “It’s postmarked from Atlanta. Do you know someone there?”

  His gaze sharpened as he took the envelope and slit it open with the table knife her mother had packed. “If it’s what I’m hoping it is...” Squinting down his spectacles, he studied the letter. “Yes! This may be the key to your mother’s future, should anything happen to me.”

  “Anything happen—?” Faith echoed uncertainly. An icicle of apprehension trickled down her spine. “Papa, are you sick?”

  Her father smiled a little too broadly. “No, nothing a man my age shouldn’t expect. A few twinges in the chest, a bit of short-windedness every now and then. I’m not as young as I used t’be, after all. Doc Walker says my ticker should be fine long’s I don’t overdo things. Trouble is, I can’t be trottin’ all over San Saba County chasin’ down news like I used to, and running the press.”

  “Papa, I’ve always said I could do more for you than just delivering the papers on Monday and sweeping out the office once a week,” she reminded him, feeling the old remembered pain rise again when he said nothing and just continued to peruse the letter.

  “Are you going to tell me what it’s about?” Faith prompted, unwilling to be ignored today.

  “It’s a response to some inquiries I’ve been making to hire an assistant. He can serve as a reporter, writing up the stories he investigates, and help around here as needed,” her father said, jerking his head toward the now-quiet printing press.

  “But Papa, I could help you,” she said, stung that he hadn’t at least thought of her. She was right beneath his nose, and except for delivering his lunches and handbills he’d printed, she had nothing else to do but help her mother keep house.

  “Faith, writing isn’t your cup of tea,” her father said dismissively. “I can’t remember even seeing you read the paper. And from what I’ve seen, your spelling is...well, maybe we should call it creative? Nor do you know a comma from a colon.”

  Faith had to admit to herself that her father was right—reading and writing hadn’t been her strengths in school. She’d been better at mathematics because she could see the logic in that. She’d always wanted and expected to be a wife and mother, but now she envied her cousin Louisa’s skill in those areas.

  “Now, Louisa could have done it, but she’s the schoolmarm now,” her father mused aloud, unaware how his words marched along with Faith’s thoughts, and how they hurt.

  “But I could write down the stories, and you could polish them up until they read right,” she protested. “In time, I’m sure you’d have to help me less and less, and I could learn to run the press...”

  “Thanks for offering, Faith, but it’s all settled,” her father said, taking a bite of her mother’s peach pie. “Mind you, I won’t be able to pay this fellow very much, so he can save board by living with us, and gradually work his way into being the editor.”

  Faith gazed at her father, dumbstruck. “He’s going to live with us? Where will he sleep?” And then she knew.

  Her father heaved a sigh. “I figured it’s time we used Eddie’s room, Faith,” he said, not meeting her eyes.

  She could agree with that at least. Her father had kept her brother’s room like a shrine ever since his death, despite her mother’s pleas to let her use it as a sewing room or for storage.

  “And if this fellow takes over the paper someday, how is that going to take care of Mother?”

  “Don’t worry, Faith, if Yancey Merriwell makes it through his trial period, he’ll sign a contract that entitles your mother to half the profit of the paper. And my will specifies she’ll own the house.”

  Anxiety for him squeezed her heart, even as anger at him sparked. He’d made a will? When? After the doctor had told him his heart wasn’t strong?

  She couldn’t stifle the question any longer. “And me, Father? What about me?”

  He blinked in surprise. “You? But you’ll be married to your young preacher, long before I ever pass on,” he said. “You’ll live in the parsonage.”

  “Papa, I told you Reverend Gil and I weren’t courting,” she said, trying to keep her distress from showing in her voice. He never thought of her. She was just a daughter. Daughters married, and it was their husbands’ duty to take care of them. Only sons mattered, and his had died. “What if I never marry?”

  “Horsefeathers, girl,” her father said with a snort. “It’s as plain as the nose on your face about you and Gil—unless you don’t like the fellow, of course. And if you don’t...” He shrugged. “I’m sure y
ou’ll find some other beau who suits your fancy. Now, don’t you worry about this Merriwell fellow. He might not even cotton to Simpson Creek after being used to the big city of Atlanta. I reckon it’s quite a place, even after that bluebelly General Sherman got done with it. Or you might even make a match with Merriwell. He sounds like a nice fellow. Dunno what he looks like, of course.”

  She’d listened to all she could without exploding. “Sure, Papa,” she said, rising. “I’d better be going. Mama needs me to pick up some thread at the mercantile. Be sure and finish your dinner now.”

  He put out a hand to stop her. “You don’t need to worry, Faith. I’ll add a codicil to my will that you and your mother own the house, all right? Thanks for bringing my vittles.”

  Faith’s eyes stung and she knew she had to get out of the shop before she cried. If she could make it past the hotel to the alley—

  But there was no privacy to be found in the alley. As soon as she stepped into it and pulled out her lace-edged hanky, she spotted Polly Shackleford entering from the other end which opened on Travis Street. She had already spotted Faith and was waving a hand in greeting, so it was too late to duck back out and escape into the mercantile.

  “Hello, Polly,” Faith said, hoping she didn’t look as if she’d been about to weep. With any luck this would be a quick encounter.

  “Faith, what’s wrong?” Polly said, concern furrowing her brow as she came forward.

  So much for hiding her distress. “Oh, nothing,” Faith prevaricated. “A bit of dust blew into my eye.” She made a great show of wiping it with her hanky before replacing it in her reticule.

  “Oh, good,” Polly said. “You looked upset. I was hoping you and Reverend Gil hadn’t had a tiff or something.” Her eyes searched Faith’s face, clearly trying to find a clue.

  Not you, too. “Reverend Gil and I have nothing to have a tiff about,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound snippy. “I’m only taking care of his father, as several of us are, nothing more.”

  “You could have fooled me, the way the two of you looked so cozy together at the wedding,” Polly teased.

  Faith wasn’t about to go over the same ground she’d just plowed with her father. “Tomorrow’s your day with Reverend Chadwick,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard the jab. “You’re still planning on it, aren’t you?”

  “Of course,” Polly said. “I believe I am as dependable as anyone in the group.”

  Why was Polly so defensive and prickly? “Are you out doing errands?” Faith asked.

  Polly nodded. “I’m going to ask your father to make up a handbill for the box social, and then I’ll check the post office for mail from bachelor candidates. You?”

  “I have to go to the mercantile for my mother,” Faith said. She hoped her father had finished eating—he’d never remember to eat once Polly interrupted him. She could have told Polly there wasn’t any Spinsters’ Club mail because Mr. Wallace had volunteered that fact when she’d been in the post office, but she was afraid the other girl would think she’d been poaching on Polly’s chosen territory.

  Polly seemed loath to move on. Faith cast about desperately for something else to talk about.

  “You heard the news of Sarah’s baby, didn’t you?”

  Polly nodded, her face wistful. “I wonder if I’ll ever marry and have a child...”

  Faith swallowed her exasperation. Couldn’t Polly ever be happy for someone without making it into something about herself? “Of course you will,” she said in a bracing tone. “Why, you and Anson had a good time at the wedding, didn’t you?”

  The other girl’s face fell. “I thought we were, especially when he caught the garter... But then he went right back to his horse talk with those boys, as if I wasn’t even there, and when it came time to leave, he said nothing about seeing me again. Oh, Faith, I’m truly going to be a spinster.”

  Faith smothered a sigh. The other girl certainly would be an old maid if she didn’t abandon her poor-little-me air. “Oh, you never know. Anson may surprise you yet,” she said, although she had little belief Prissy’s cousin would ever spare a thought for Polly again.

  Then she had an idea that might give Polly hope for a time, yet might also drive her father’s potential successor away. Her father hadn’t exactly said when Yancey Merriwell was coming, but he’d implied the man was single because he would be rooming at their house. She could tell Polly about Merriwell, giving her advance news of a possible bachelor candidate so that Polly could claim first dibs if she wanted to. And though she couldn’t claim knowledge of the man’s looks or manner, the news might intrigue Polly enough to cause her to rush toward the newcomer as soon as he set foot in Simpson Creek—which might make Merriwell flee the town on the next stage. Or could the Georgian find Polly Shackleford enchanting?

  “You’re looking like the cat that swallowed the canary, Faith,” Polly said. “What are you thinking of?”

  One look at her curious face and Faith knew she couldn’t go through with it. A moral person didn’t scheme that way, not when it might cause Polly yet more disappointment and her father more worry about the future.

  “Oh, nothing, I was just thinking about something Papa said,” Faith said. It was partly true at least. Even if she didn’t tip her off about Merriwell, when Polly discovered the new bachelor in town, Faith’s goal might be accomplished anyway. If Polly annoyed Merriwell so much that he left, Faith might have a chance to convince her father of her value as an assistant. Of course, she’d have to secure Louisa’s help with writing copy that made sense and was spelled and punctuated correctly, but surely in time she would pick up the knack of it!

  * * *

  What had he heard? It sounded like a smothered groan. But surely he was the only human out here. Gil laid his Bible in the grass, stood and looked around, but saw no one. There was no more sound, not even the rustling of grass. Even the birds he’d heard calling from nearby hushed.

  Had it been the cry of a wounded animal?

  “Who’s there? Are you hurt?”

  Silence. But now it felt like a listening silence, as if he was not alone. As if whoever or whatever had made the sound was determined not to make that mistake again. Or was his mind playing tricks on him?

  Then his horse, which had been grazing a few feet away, lifted his head, ears pricked and nickered—

  —and was answered by the whinny of another horse.

  Gil might have believed the other horse was wild if he hadn’t been so sure he’d heard a human groan first. Was it possible the other person was no longer able to make a sound—perhaps because he had passed out? Because he was dying?

  Could it be the trick of an outlaw, luring him into a trap? Lord, please protect me, he prayed as he moved cautiously through the brush. He had to take the chance. How could he live with himself if someone needed help, and he was the only one available but didn’t provide it?

  He moved around the base of the rock outcropping, dodging clumps of prickly pear and juniper, his ears straining for any sound.

  And then he spotted the brown-and-white pinto, more of a pony than a horse, standing in front of a cedar brake. Its head was raised and nostrils flared as it watched Gil approach. Was it wild? No, it had a primitive sort of bridle with a feather dangling from the bottom of the nose piece. An Indian pony.

  Gil froze. Had the groan been uttered by an injured Comanche? Or worse, one who lay in wait, planning to lure him closer in hope of taking his scalp? All the stories he’d ever heard of Comanche atrocities flooded his brain. He had no weapon, not even so much as a pocketknife. Perhaps if he backed up now, he could reach his horse before the unseen savage jumped him. Was the Indian even now poised to spring out at him or onto him from the rocks above?

  Lord, save me!

  There were plenty of loose rocks on the ground. Perhaps he could hurl one at the red m
an, disabling his attacker long enough so Gil could reach his own mount and escape.

  Then he heard the groan again. This time it was less muffled, as if the person groaning could no longer fully stifle it.

  And it didn’t sound like a man’s cry—it sounded younger. And full of real pain.

  If someone was injured, he had a duty to try to help.

  Inching warily forward, listening for any hint of movement, Gil peered into the shadowy midst of the cedar brake, and spotted an Indian boy lying on his back, dressed in buckskin leggings, breechclout and moccasins.

  At the sight of Gil, the boy yelped in fear, and in a motion too quick for Gil’s eyes to follow, yanked a knife from his belt and threw it at Gil.

  The hastily thrown knife went wide to Gil’s left, and clattered against a rock, and Gil picked it up to prevent the boy from using it on him again. But it seemed the movement had cost the young Indian, for he clenched his teeth over a moan and seized his lower leg with both hands. He kept his eyes open and trained on Gil, obviously fearing attack.

  He was injured. Gil could see now that the leg was bent at an unnatural angle. Now that he was closer, Gil spotted a scraped cheek and hand, and a forehead beaded with sweat. Had he fallen from his horse? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that Gil had to help him. But first he had to convince the boy, who was perhaps eight, that he meant him no harm. The boy’s eyes remained wide, his hands curled into fists. He was ready to fight to the death.

  “Easy, boy, I mean you no harm,” Gil said. He threw the knife some distance away, then held both hands palm up. Would the Indian understand the gesture, or even if he did, would he believe Gil’s sincerity?

  The boy’s eyes remained glowing black coals in the shade of the trees. He remained poised to defend himself, even though the tense way he held himself obviously cost him more pain.

  How was he going to convince the boy he only wanted to help? The boy didn’t understand English, and he sure didn’t know any Comanche, nor even the sign language some men who’d dealt with Indians knew.